Arnold Adoff explained his definition of poetry: “…a fine poem combines the elements of measuring music, with a form like a living frame that holds it together. I really want a poem to sprout roses and spit bullets; this is the ideal combination. My poems should be read three or four times – once for the meaning, once for the music, and once for how the music and meaning go together.”

From this Bus Window by Arnold Adoff

From this bus
pulling away from the curb
I can stretch
my neck. I can just stare into
the eyes

of a bicycle
messenger:
he is the
meat

of
the
sandwich
between
this bus and the moving van
on his other side.

Then he blows the whistle glued between his lips,
and sprint-pedals out of the sandwhich
and slides ahead of us both: bus and van,
and around
his corner.
We ride on.

” Bill Waters lives in Pennington, New Jersey, U.S.A., with his wonderful wife and their three amazing cats. :- ) ” He leads a writing group that meets once a month in the Princeton area. He loves writing Haiku’s and Senryu’s This is the one I saw today and it reminded me of my grandmother’s front porch so I decided to feature it today.

Good writers of poetry read other poets work to expand their own skills. It is a daily routine of mine, I find joy being immersed in poetry especially when you consider the media alternative lately. Either it is political back stabbing commentaries or more violence. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t ignore what is happening around me. I just seek balance in my life and poetry gives me that. From time to time I will share one that really made me smile. Thank you, Ruthie

Remembering Peter’s Lake
by Ruthie Hamgeri

You don’t think to care about the
sand in your hair, or the vampire-like
insects that leave reddening, itchy bumps
on your skin, or the pruning of

your hands and feet that makes you feel as though
you are turning, forming into a full-fledged
creature of the lake.

You submerge your head in the water, so that
Mother’s warning words — “Time to head back!” — get
muffled and seem like a world away. You beg body

and mind to soak up any essence of the beach, to take
these moments home with you: the lulling of the waters,
the sun’s warm breath on your skin, the gleeful calls of friends that
join the current’s pull to go further, deeper, until you can’t
see or feel the ground beneath you.

You scan your eyes over the scene of summer’s children, who are
shrieking and running, and summer’s parents keeping one eye
on watch and the other gazing at the blissful sight, as the sun thinly
spreads magenta-orange rays goodbye, and the moon slowly
purses cool lips to kiss the water with a glow.

You do not think of driving away tomorrow, and
a distance of miles turning,
forming into years.

PHOTO: “Girl in lake at dusk” from favim.com.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: When it comes to writing poetry, sometimes I have to wait for inspiration, but sometimes I have to simply sit down and write with no direction, no thought. I enjoy the latter type of process because it is almost supernatural to see the mechanical writing become something meaningful — or become poetry. A professor of mine used to say that the worst thing a poet can do is sit down and write knowing exactly what they want to say and how. For me, poetry has become more about exploration and discovery, so I like to let the writing get the better of me, and follow the words rather than vice-versa. This is what happened with this particular poem!